"O, now for ever
Farewell the tranquil mind,"--
there was "a mysterious confluence of sounds" passing off into infinite
distance, and every thought and feeling within him seemed traveling with
them.
How graceful he is in Othello! It is not a practiced, educated grace,
but the "unbought grace" of his genius, uttering itself in its beauty
and grandeur in the movements of the outward man. When he says to Iago
so touchingly, "Leave me, leave me, Iago," and, turning from him, walks
to the back of the stage, raising his hands, and bringing them down upon
his head, with clasped fingers, and stands thus with his back to us,
there is a grace and majesty in his figure which we look on with
admiration.
Talking of these things in Kean is something like reading the _Beauties
of Shakspeare_; for he is as true in the subordinate as in the great
parts. But he must be content to share with other men of genius, and
think himself fortunate if one in a hundred sees his lesser beauties,
and marks the truth and delicacy of his under-playing. For instance,
when he has no share in the action going on, he is not busy in putting
himself into attitudes to draw attention, but stands or sits in a simple
posture, like one with an engaged mind. His countenance, too, is in a
state of ordinary repose, with but a slight, general expression of the
character of his thoughts; for this is all the face shows, when the mind
is taken up in silence with its own reflections. It does not assume
marked or violent expressions, as in soliloquy. When a man gives
utterance to his thoughts, though alone, the charmed rest of the body is
broken; he speaks in his gestures too, and the countenance is put into a
sympathizing action.
I was first struck with this in his Hamlet; for the deep and quiet
interest, so marked in Hamlet, made the justness of Kean's playing, in
this respect, the more obvious. And since then, I have observed him
attentively, and have found the same true acting in his other
characters.
This right conception of situation and its general effect seems to
require almost as much genius as his conceptions of his characters, and,
indeed, may be considered as one with them. He deserves praise for it;
for there is so much of the subtilty of nature in it, if one may so
speak, that while a few are able, with his help, to put themselves into
the situation, and perceive the justness of his acting in it, the rest,
both those who like him upon the whole, as well as those who profess to
see little in him, will be apt to let it pass by without observing it.
Like most men, however, Kean receives a partial reward, at least, for
his sacrifice of the praise of the many to what he feels to be the
truth. For when he passes from the state of natural repose, even into
that of gentle motion and ordinary discourse, he is immediately filled
with a spirit and life, which he makes everyone feel who is not
armor-proof against him. This helps to the sparkling brightness and
warmth of his playing, the grand secret of which, like that of colors in
a picture, lies in a just contrast. We can all speculate concerning the
general rules upon this; but when the man of genius gives us their
results, how few are there who can trace them out with an observant eye,
or look with a discerning satisfaction upon the great whole. Perhaps
this very beauty in Kean has helped to an opinion, which, no doubt, is
true, that he is, at times, too sharp and abrupt. I well remember, while
once looking at a picture in which the shadow of a mountain fell, in
strong outline, upon a part of a stream, I overheard some quite sensible
people expressing their wonder that the artist should have made the
water of two colors, seeing it was all one and the same thing.
Instances of Kean's keeping of situations were striking in the opening
of the trial scene in _The Iron Chest_, and in _Hamlet_, when the
father's ghost tells the story of his death.
The composure to which he is bent up, in the former, must be present
with all who saw him. And, though from the immediate purpose, shall I
pass by the startling and appalling change, when madness seized upon his
brain, with the swiftness and power of a fanged monster? Wonderfully as
this last part was played, we cannot well imagine how much the previous
calm, and the suddenness of the unlooked-for change from it, added to
the terror of the scene. The temple stood fixed on its foundations; the
earthquake shook it, and it was a heap. Is this one of Kean's violent
contrasts?
While Kean listened, in Hamlet, to the father's story, the entire man
was absorbed in deep attention, mingled with a tempered awe. His posture
was simple, with a slight inclination forward. The spirit was the spirit
of his father, whom he had loved and reverenced, and who was to that
moment ever present in his thoughts. The first superstitious terror at
meeting him had passed off. The account of his father's appearance given
him by Horatio and the watch, and his having followed him some distance,
had, in a degree, familiarized him to the sight, and he stood before us
in the stillness of one who was to hear, then or never, what was to be
told, but without that eager reaching forward which other players give,
and which would be right, perhaps, in any character but that of Hamlet,
who connects the past and what is to come with the present, and mingles
reflection with his immediate feelings, however deep.
As an instance of Kean's familiar, and, if I may be allowed to term,
domestic acting, the first scene in the fourth act of his Sir Giles
Overreach may be taken. His manner at meeting Lovell and through the
conversation with him, the way in which he turns his chair and leans
upon it, were as easy and natural as they could have been in real life,
had Sir Giles been actually existing, and engaged at that moment in
conversation in Lovell's room.
It is in these things, scarcely less than in the more prominent parts of
his playing, that Kean shows himself the great actor. He must always
make a deep impression; but to suppose the world at large capable of a
right estimate of his different powers, would be forming a judgment
against every-day proof. The gradual manner in which the character of
his playing has opened upon me satisfies me, that in acting, as in
everything else, however deep may be the first effect of genius upon us,
we come slowly, and through study, to a perception of its minute
beauties and delicate characteristics. After all, the greater part of
men seldom get beyond the first general impression.
As there must needs go a _modicum_ of fault-finding along with
commendation, it may be well to remark, that Kean plays his hands too
much at times, and moves about the dress over his breast and neck too
frequently in his hurried and impatient passages, and that he does not
always adhere with sufficient accuracy to the received readings of
Shakspeare, and that the effect would be greater, upon the whole, were
he to be more sparing of sudden changes from violent voice and
gesticulation to a low conversation-tone and subdued manner.
His frequent use of these in Sir Giles Overreach is with good effect,
for Sir Giles is playing his part; so, too, in Lear, for Lear's passions
are gusty and shifting; but, in the main, it is a kind of playing too
marked and striking to bear so frequent repetition, and had better
sometimes be spared, where, considered alone, it might be properly
enough used, for the sake of bringing it in at some other place with
greater effect.
It is well to speak of these defects, for though the little faults of
genius, in themselves considered, but slightly affect those who can
enter into its true character, yet such are made impatient at the
thought, that an opportunity is given those to carp who know not how to
commend.
Though I have taken up a good deal of room, I must end without speaking
of many things which occur to me. Some will be of the opinion that I
have already said enough. Thinking of Kean as I do, I could not honestly
have said less; for I hold it to be a low and wicked thing to keep back
from merit of any kind its due,--and, with Steele, that "there is
something wonderful in the narrowness of those minds which can be
pleased, and be barren of bounty to those who please them."
Although the self-important, out of self-concern, give praise sparingly,
and the mean measure theirs by their likings or dislikings of a man, and
the good even are often slow to allow the talents of the faulty their
due, lest they bring the evil to repute; yet it is the wiser as well as
the honester course, not to disparage an excellence because it neighbors
upon a fault, nor to take away from another what is his of right, with a
view to our own name, nor to rest our character for discernment upon the
promptings of an unkind heart. Where God has not feared to bestow great
powers, we may not fear giving them their due; nor need we be
parsimonious of commendation, as if there were but a certain quantity
for distribution, and our liberality would be to our loss; nor should we
hold it safe to detract from another's merit, as if we could always keep
the world blind, lest we live to see him whom we disparaged, praised,
and whom we hated, loved.
Whatever be his failings, give every man a full and ready commendation
for that in which he excels; it will do good to our own hearts, while it
cheers his. Nor will it bring our judgment into question with the
discerning; for enthusiasm for what is great does not argue such an
unhappy want of discrimination as that measured and cold approval, which
is bestowed alike upon men of mediocrity and upon those of gifted
minds.